When I saw her die in the old arm-chair.
’Tis past, ’tis past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
’Twas there she nursed, ’twas there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it! and can not tear
My soul from a mother’s old arm-chair.